


The Desperate Man

by lalazee



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-25
Updated: 2011-03-25
Packaged: 2017-10-17 06:54:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/174104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lalazee/pseuds/lalazee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Forget your boyfriend and meet me at the hotel room.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Desperate Man

The lonely _clack_ of the final case locking beneath Arthur’s capable fingers is more final than the kick of a bullet to the brain.

For everyone but Arthur, it signals the conclusion to another long day; the allowance of relaxing minds and muscles. For everyone but Arthur, it whispers of a steaming shower and cool, welcoming sheets.

And for Arthur – _well_.

“My count was one PASIV short.” Arthur concerns himself with rolling down a single, starched sleeve. Anything but Cobb adjusting the recline of a lawn chair beneath the dingy, puce fluorescence.

“Yeah, well,” is all Cobb mutters, as he reflexively grips the nape of his stiff neck. Arthur swallows; blinks at the wide expanse of back and returns to his ministrations upon the second sleeve. Smoothes out every wrinkle, every imperfection and prob – _no_.

An impeccable persona does not a perfect person make.

 _Will I see you tonight?_ stuffs and sticks in Arthur’s mouth like cotton. His jaw twitches as he swallows it down; chokes on his pride. But, God, where is his _pride_ when he all but lives for throwing himself at Cobb’s feet?

Arthur admires the man to a fault. His mind is inspiring, his heart is passionate – there is so much Cobb can offer the world. But he locks those qualities in a personal safe – one which only Cobb has the code for. A safe that Arthur has kept his ear to; attempting every known combination with the same efficient tenacity in which he approaches all puzzles.

But this safe is rigged – and every time Arthur opens one door, a bomb bursts in his face.

And _shit_ , he says it anyway.

“Will I see you tonight?” Arthur tightly presses his lips together and approaches Cobb’s turned back; lays a tentative hand between bunched shoulder blades.

Cobb turns, and his eyes are glassy. Arthur lets his hand drop, inwardly stealing himself from the rejection he knows is coming.

“I haven’t dreamt in a week, Arthur. I – I need...” Cobb’s fingers are clammy when they linger at Arthur’s wrist.

Arthur carefully retracts his hand and firmly stamps down on disappointment. He only allows a flicker of sympathy to pass over his austere features. If Arthur has nothing else, he has his restraint. There is comfort in that.

“I understand. You need her.”

Cobb catches Arthur’s eye, and his expression is stalwart. Arthur has never known Cobb to be a man of apologies. Regret, yes – atonement, yes. But he never apologises for what he feels, and Arthur isn’t going to make him change.

Mal was, and would always be, their macabre bedfellow.

“Night, Arthur.” Cobb’s lukewarm lips whisper across the downturned corner of Arthur’s mouth.

He doesn’t angle into the kiss. “Goodnight.”

Arthur turns on his heel, and concentrates on the hollow _clack_ of his shoes upon the cement floor, rather than the dissipating shuffle of Cobb situating himself on the chair. Sound fades to a dull roar in Arthur’s ears as he collects his messenger bag and shrugs into his suit jacket. He refuses to allow himself to think – to feel – as he prepares for departure. Without a single glance to the open doorway that leads to Cobb, Arthur flicks off the remaining lights of the warehouse, and departs.

The shadowed sea of the parking lot is deserted, but for three cars. _Three?_ Arthur frowns, and the expression deepens when he notes a familiar character slouching against the driver’s door of his efficient Volvo.

“Lock your keys in your car again?” Arthur says with barely repressed _schadenfreude_. Despite his sour mood, Arthur can’t help but experience a lilt of good humour at Eames’ misfortune.

“Witty at one in the morning, are we?” Eames grins around the thin, stubby cigar clamped between his teeth. The dull glow of the cherry pools an ethereal light in those candid eyes. “I like it.”

“Yes, because I’m always the comic relief,” Arthur says coolly.

“People just don’t register your humour as well as I do,” he says. Eames’ cheeks hollow around the cigar with one last suck. He discards it to the pavement, and Arthur blandly watches a plume of smoke slither from Eames’ lips.

“Soul mates, _obviously_.”

Eames laughs as if he hasn’t expected the reply. Arthur raises his eyebrows and resists the urge to shift from one foot to the other. It’s unfortunate that his upbringing causes him to waste perfectly good etiquette on this man. But there you have it. Eames makes him antsy.

“Do you want me to get the lock-pick from my car, or what?” Arthur inquires crisply, and gestures to the car door Eames is leaning on.

“What – oh – right. No. I’ve not been locked out,” Eames murmurs, taking a casual step towards Arthur.

“All right,” Arthur says carefully, although he refuses to take a step in retreat. His brow furrows slightly. “And you’re haunting the parking lot, _why_ , exactly?”

Eames shrugs, but the gesture is too smoothed and practiced – an actor’s expression of indifference. Arthur has been around the forger long enough to peer past his ploys.

“Thought you could use a drink.” There’s more to the offer than the simple release of alcohol. It gleams in Eames’ eyes like hot coals, and brings subtle warmth to Arthur’s cheeks. Arthur’s lips pout in a slight frown as he attempts to puzzle out why this is happening _now_ , of all times.

“I don’t drink on the job.”

“Lucky you’re not on the job, then, eh?”

“I consider myself on the job until it’s completed.” Arthur pulls his keys from his pocket, their metallic jangle mirroring the sound of his nerves. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

He faces his car and nudges Eames to the side with his shoulder. Arthur is briefly pleased that his hand doesn’t shake as he shoves the key in the lock.

A large pair of palms slap on the roof of the car, effectively caging Arthur between warm, muscular arms. The firm, welcoming lines of Eames’ body press against his shoulder blades, his ass. Arthur goes stone-still, all but forgetting to breathe.

Eames’ words are hot and humid against his ear. “Don’t pretend you’re not interested, darling.”

 _God_ , he’s interested. Tempted.

When was the last time Arthur had a willing body moulded to his own? When had someone’s thoughts been purely focussed on him and not some spectre of better times? When was the last time he had been more than a cock and casual tool for release?

Still. _Still_. Even a man like Eames doesn't deserve to be used like Arthur has been. What kind of hypocrite will Arthur be if he jumps Eames for no other reason than to experience the unfamiliar warmth of acceptance?

Arthur siphons every prickle of pleasure into what he hopes is a sufficiently exasperated sigh. “Eames, this may come as a shock to you, but I’m _not_ interested.”

“Uninterested or unwilling to be interested?”

“Are the semantics particularly relevant at this point? It’s not going to happen.”

There’s a gravelly laugh against the nape of Arthur’s neck, and a familiar solid pulse against the small of his back. “Bloody hell, but you’re repressed.”

Arthur grits his teeth and brings a hand up to grip the fervid skin of Eames’ wrist. “You have about five seconds before I put you in an arm-lock.”

The split-second of tension is almost enough to snap Arthur’s brittle resolve. He briefly entertains the idea of throwing caution to the wind for one wild fuck – and just as quickly discards the dream in a growing pile of all the other dreams he refuses to enact, even with the aid of a PASIV.

Eames removes his hands from the car, his fingertips ghosting over Arthur’s once his wrist is released. It’s an uncommonly sweet gesture – so much so that the moist lips mouthing his earlobe come as molten shock that rockets south.

“Forget your boyfriend and meet me at the hotel room.”

Arthur only distantly realises that his body is swaying back; gravitating. “He’s not my –”

“Brilliant. I dare say I was getting jealous.”

When Eames pulls away, the chilled evening air leaves Arthur feeling bereft and frustrated. Eames’ distinct swagger crunches on the pavement, and Arthur is left blinking blankly down at the keys protruding from the door.

Not wanting to look a fool – _a bit late for that_ , he berates himself – Arthur scrambles inside the car. Eames’ flashy Mitsubishi squeals out of the parking lot, and it’s the careless scrape of tires that snaps Arthur out of his white-knuckled state.

 _Absolutely ridiculous_. Feckless sex with Eames is not a road Arthur plans to take. Arthur doesn’t do casual, and he doesn’t _do_ people casually. End of story.

So why does Arthur find himself standing before room 418 with his clenched fist hovering an inch from the door?

There is, of course, the initial attraction. The long, hot liquid pull that stretches taut within him when Eames’ gaze laps at the length of Arthur’s body at inappropriate moments. Arthur is not blind or a fool – nor is he exceedingly humble about his own attractiveness. He recognises the lazy look of lust; catalogues it and dismisses as something unattainable and unneeded.

Not unwanted. _Unneeded_.

If there was nothing more than mutual physical allure between himself and Eames, then perhaps – _perhaps_ – there could have been a simple end to this play.

But much to Arthur’s chagrin, nothing in his life is that elementary. There is more. There is – well, Eames is a co-worker for one. Perplexingly enough, Arthur respects Eames and even trusts him on _some_ level. How else could Arthur put his life in Eames’ hands time and again without that blueprint of steel fortifying their current relationship?

And consequently, how can Arthur dare put his _body_ in Eames’ hands when they’ll have to face each other the next day? When Arthur will have to face Cobb again? Not that Cobb will particularly notice a change in Arthur, but it’s the principle of the matter that has him digging his heels in.

Arthur’s knuckles waver above the brass numbers as he swipes his tongue over his chapped lips and _thinks_.

Thinks about what Eames is offering –a quick release and reprieve of the heavy everyday monotony. Someone’s attention devoted to Arthur for once. Recognition as something more than a sharp shot and a keen memory.

In that thread of thought, Eames rarely seems to think of Arthur as anything more than a nice ass in a clean cut suit and a toy to occasionally tempt and tease.

Arthur would rather be shot point-blank than admit to a small, quivering aspect of him enjoying the objectifying view. He is, after all, a _man_ and has needs – unattended – just like any other person.

Why it’s _Eames_ that actually notices this is beyond Arthur.

The door opens before Arthur can retreat and then it’s all Eames with heart-shaped lips saying, “Will you come in now or are we still playing the game?”

Arthur refuses to express his embarrassment as he stares squarely at Eames. A thread of electricity winds around his spine, leaving his raw nerves crackling in anticipation. Arthur swallows and chokes on his dry tongue when he realises he doesn’t have the words to go through with this.

Eames’ eyelashes fall and curtain his gaze as his attention lingers on Arthur’s lips. Wordlessly, his fingers curve around the lapels of Arthur’s suit; the whisper of knuckles grazing fine wool and Arthur’s exhale are the only sounds between them.

And then Arthur is pulled inside like gravity itself radiates from Eames’ stocky frame. Arthur knows what to expect from a man like Eames: rough palms and insatiable lips, insistent hips and bruising fingertips.

So when he’s pressed up against the back of the door and Eames merely leans in and brushes his lips across Arthur’s ear with a contented hum, Arthur experiences the most alarming urge to cry.

“Eames?”

 _What is this_ , Arthur doesn’t ask. Doesn’t have the courage to do that or very much else involving his personal life.

Arthur’s goals have always been career oriented, and now, in this painful pinprick of time, Arthur’s sights have become overwhelmingly Eames-oriented.

Eames cuts off the query with a deft kiss – and _oh_ , his mouth is every sin Arthur can fathom. Plush lips warm his own, coercing him open with dainty nibbles and the errant sweep of velvety tongue. Arthur unfurls more willingly than he’d like to admit, but it doesn’t matter because Eames is sampling the curve of Arthur’s mouth and the line of his teeth like he’s a coveted work of art.

Eames finally _finally_ steps into Arthur’s space, encompasses his hips with wide palms and lavishes his jaw with a series of warm, wet kisses. The roaring in Arthur’s head presses in from all sides, surrounding him and condensing his senses to the points of white light that erupt where Eames’ body touches his own.

And it’s not enough – not for Arthur. Not when he’s walked through the desert and bore the drought of his solitude. Not when Eames is this lush, willing oasis placed in the centre of Arthur’s fast, just for him.

Arthur’s fingers dive into Eames’ fine hair, gripping handfuls as he clashes their mouths together with rekindled desperation. He’s already half hard when he ruts his hips against Eames’ solid frame.

Eames laughs into his mouth and takes the hint like the clever man he can be if he puts his mind to it. He discards Arthur’s jacket in long, languid movements that allow Eames’ heated hands to skim Arthur’s collarbone and mould the lithe muscles in his shoulders.

Arthur pushes Eames onto the bed and simultaneously kicks off his shoes with an abandon that he rarely embraces – and it’s _thrilling_. He feels like he can do anything in this time and place; it’s better than any dream when one can own their reality so powerfully.

“I must admit, I expected you to play harder to get,” Eames says breathlessly once his shirt and shoes and socks have been shucked. He’s splayed across the king-sized bed in a pair of ludicrous forest green trousers and his tattoos are curled around his body like aching, blackened scars that beg for Arthur’s tongue.

Arthur stands at the foot of the bed, one knee bent and leaning on the mattress as he unbuttons his vest in quick, neat flicks of fingers. He gathers his bearings enough to quirk an eyebrow.

“Would you like me to resist, Mr. Eames?” He pops the last button and slides the article off of his shoulders, all the while analysing the eclipsing pupils of Eames’ eyes as he follows the motion.

“ _No_ ,” Eames says, almost too quiet to hear.

He props himself up on his elbows and watches Arthur whip off his belt and remove his cufflinks in such clinical motions that one can barely tell that his hands are shaking.

Before Arthur can finish undressing himself, Eames surges up and hooks his fingers in Arthur’s waistband. The zipper is yanked down and his trousers whisper to the carpet as Arthur drops the cufflinks cupped in his palm. They’re long forgotten as he yields under Eames’ coaxing palms.

“You darling, are unbelievable,” Eames murmurs against the curve of Arthur’s neck once he’s flipped their positions. The hard length of his cock strains through his pants and pulses insistently against Arthur’s bare thigh.

Arthur slides his knee between Eames’ legs and can’t help the faint curl of lips at Eames’ hitching breath. “Why?”

“You’re wearing nothing but a partially buttoned shirt and boxers that, allow me to say, leave very little to the imagination.” Eames tugs at Arthur’s collar, and dips his head to taste the damp dent of Arthur’s clavicle. He mouths into Arthur’s skin, “And yet you still look like you could cut me off at the knees at a moment’s notice. Arthur, you _are_ extraordinary – you must be aware of that.”

Arthur doesn’t know how to respond to that kind of comment coming from Eames, so he just unbuckles Eames’ belt and says, strong and clear, “Fuck me, Eames.”

Eames’ gaze goes dark as slate, his pupils blown as he rushes forward and ravages Arthur’s mouth like he’s been dreaming of it even when Arthur knows neither of them do anymore.

They shed their remaining clothes in record time, although Eames insists that Arthur keep on his watch because it’s somehow sexy. Arthur is momentarily startled to hear a laugh bubble out of him when Eames laves at the wing of his hipbone and it tickles like all hell.

And when Eames slots his thick, throbbing dick all slick and hot in crevice of Arthur’s inner thigh and cock, it’s like every nerve snaps to attention and sets his limbs alight. Arthur inhales a sharp, humid breath and allows his hands to explore Eames’ body of their own accord. He traces the strong arc of ribs, the quivering belly and maps the fluid strain of taut muscle that ropes Eames’ entire frame.

All too quickly just fucking against each other isn’t enough – not nearly enough – and Arthur is biting bruises into Eames’ neck and jaw and ear, saying, “Lube – _now_.”

“Knew you’d be a bossy bottom,” Eames says with a grin and pink cheeks.

There’s no time for Arthur to formulate a proper reply because a single finger slides into him up to the knuckle. It takes all of Arthur’s remaining control not to keen like a mindless animal as he arches up and spreads his legs with more abandon than he cares to admit.

No one has lavished this much attention on Arthur since... he can’t think.

His head his spinning and he feels the burn consume his sanity with each finger that stretches and scissors him open. Eames is murmuring nothings against Arthur’s chest, as if he’s speaking directly to his heart – and again Arthur experiences that unsettling swell and burst within his breast.

“Now now _now_.” Arthur doesn’t care if he’s begging. He craves the fullness of Eames’ cock inside him, pushing that unfamiliar pain in his heart away with the welcome, familiar fire of discomfort.

Eames drops his forehead to Arthur’s, his eyes wide but unseeing as he breaks past the first tight ring of muscle. “Whatever you want. Anything.”

Arthur isn’t sure Eames knows what he’s saying, but it hardly matters as they’re both drowning in each other; scent and sound and the slick slide of their bellies and thighs. When Eames is buried in Arthur to the hilt and they’re gasping into each other’s open mouths, there isn’t anything else – there can’t be anything else. No one has made Arthur feel this full and bursting with power.

“Move,” Arthur says, his voice punchy and darker than he remembers it being. He rolls without further warning and moans once he straddles Eames’ hips and finds a new mind-numbing angle.

And it’s _perfect_ and hot and necessary – it’s what Arthur needs, and nothing less.

Eames’ hands bruise Arthur’s thighs; smudges and smears purple and blue desire into his skin so that hours from now Arthur can look at them and remember how someone _wanted him_.

Arthur rocks back on Eames’ cock without a single inhibition. He can’t recognise the point which he was stripped so bare, but he’s truly naked now – exposed before Eames as he both yields to the body beneath him and fights for control.

They move in tandem, and are moved at the same time – shaken to the core with every thrust and grind. Time rolls loose and liquid between their joined bodies, as uneven as he and Eames’ mingling gasps. Arthur’s watch ticks away minutes that may well be hours or days – and fuck, how is this _not_ a dream?

Arthur imagines rolling, clattering loaded dice, but they never stop tumbling and he doesn’t care. He drops down into the circle of Eames’ arms; cradles stubbly cheeks in his palms as his mouth clings to Eames’, their tongues tangling. Eames’ lips are made for this, and Arthur knows he’ll be able to think of nothing else every time he looks at the man – looks at ugly loafers or his own watch or stacks of poker chips.

He’ll only think of Eames.

Eames shifts and groans into the moist angle of Arthur’s jaw; bucks up – stretching, burning, taking, pushing harder and more more _more_. Reality is fading and fogging in the humidity of their breath and sweat and urgency.

They kiss until Arthur’s lungs burn and then they kiss until he’s dizzy, just to prove that he’s alive. Eames grips and bunches Arthur’s hair; pulls him in close until they’re rocking together with slick slaps of skin and harried, heated hands.

Eames’ arms tighten around Arthur just as the electric jolts snap beneath his skin. Imprisoned in each other’s grasps, Arthur pushes down hard and Eames thrusts up harder, his mercurial gaze holding Arthur close. Limbs and fingers entwined, they ride each other to oblivion and over; thrusting and sliding until they're sticky and warm and senseless and spent.

Unable to reboot with any reasonable speed, Arthur simply collapses atop Eames’ hard, moist chest and exhales loudly. Eames’ cups the back of Arthur’ head in his palm, trails and travels down the blade of Arthur’s shoulder and the nubs of his spine as if stroking a cat. Arthur will complain when he musters the energy – but for now, it makes him feel adored and worshipped and lov –

Makes him forget about everything outside this gold and cream hotel room.

“Stop thinking, pet,” Eames murmurs into Arthur’s neck.

“Easy for you to say.”

A chuckle rumbles their sated bodies. “Very.”

“It’s just that... I don’t do this.”

“I abhor sounding cliché, but you just have.”

Arthur bites back a sigh of frustration as he folds his arms upon Eames’ chest and pillows his cheek there. He doesn’t look at Eames’ face, but feels those laughing eyes on him.

“Well, we won’t anymore. This was a –“

“Mistake?” Eames’ voice is unnaturally tight, and this time Arthur can’t help but meet his gaze and frown.

“One-off, I was going to say. I don’t make mistakes.”

“ _Ah_.” Eames’ face lights up, even as the shadows linger in his eyes. “Well in that case, my dear Arthur, I’ll have you know that this will be the first of many encounters.”

Eames’ hand at the small of Arthur’s back is beginning to distract him, pooling heat at the base of his spine.

“What? I – no. No, it won’t be.”

A soft kiss alights the jutting bone of Arthur’s wrist. “Yes, it will.”

Arthur squirms but refuses to look away. “No.”

“Arthur – _darling_.” Eames raises his eyebrows in that bastardly way that signals he’s about to say something he believes is awfully clever. “Do you always battle so wilfully against the things you most desire?”

Arthur scoffs and attempts to roll away, but is easily thwarted – and he doesn’t grapple much – when Eames rolls and pins him into the bed with an unnervingly thoughtful look.

“See me tomorrow.”

“I will,” Arthur says with purposeful obtuseness. “Eight sharp at the warehouse. Or, in your case, whenever you decide to stroll in looking obscenely well-rested.”

Eames’ flushed lips curve. “Cheeky. You know what I mean.” His thigh slots comfortably between Arthur’s knees as he dips his head to catch Arthur’s mouth in a light, nuzzling kiss.

Arthur doesn’t know how to deal with this Eames. He yields to the kiss, inhaling the musky scents of sex and silk sheets and sweat. Enjoys the rasp of Eames’ stubble against his chin and the strong, sure hands at his shoulders.

But he can’t let go of his inner monologue for any length of time. Just can’t let go. That would be dangerous. That would be –

“Allow me to see you tomorrow night,” Eames murmurs against Arthur’s lips.

Strangely enough, tucked against Eames’ body in a warm room encased in gold, Arthur feels safe enough to say _yes_.

The airy sound of Eames’ happy laugh makes Arthur feel far from lonely.


End file.
